


Give It Some Time

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Past Infidelity, Post-Divorce, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: I vow to keep my vows.Forever your love,H.





	Give It Some Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curvxs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curvxs/gifts).



> Title from Cross My Mind by A R I Z O N A.

Zayn recognized the handwriting as soon as he saw the envelope in the post. Tight, cramped, slightly slanted. Perhaps his favorite handwriting in the world.

He tore open the envelope and turned the sleek, black card over in his hands.

 _You’re Invited to A Graduation Party for Noah Styles!_  
_May 25, 2028_  
_NOLA Restaurant and Bar_ _  
_ Palo Alto, CA

Once upon a time, a whole world away, Zayn was someone’s step-father. He carried a little boy in his arms and changed his nappies. He walked that little boy to school and helped put him to sleep every night.

And now that little boy was a young man in a black cap and gown, grinning full and open at the camera. Noah Styles stood in the middle of a row of bleachers, arms outstretched before a sunny California sky.

Zayn ran his fingers over the planes of Noah’s face, mentally documenting the changes in his countenance since the last time he saw Noah in person. The boy in the photo was tall and gangly, with a thin face and dark hair — a far cry from the stocky child Zayn kept in his memories.

Zayn gave himself another moment to treasure the photograph before he moved to pin the card to his fridge. His fingers fumbled with the magnet and a scrap of paper Zayn previously hadn’t noticed dropped to the floor.

Zayn took a moment to squint uncomprehendingly at the Virgin Atlantic gift card at his feet. He stooped to pick it up and glared at the note accompanying it.

Zayn recognized the handwriting on this, too. Large, looping, almost lazy. He used to see it every day, on cheeky notes left around the flat for Zayn to find. And then as their life shifted into something awesome and terrible, Zayn saw it on album sleeves, as lyrics scribbled on pieces of hotel stationary, on magazine covers and the vests of weeping girls.

 _We’d be delighted if you joined us for Noah’s celebration._  
_All the love,_ _  
H_

For a moment, Zayn’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. He couldn’t tell whether it was rage or something else, something painful and half-buried.

Zayn took a moment to push his emotions aside. And then he bit his bottom lip and tore up the note, shoving the pieces into the recycling.

He considered tossing the gift card, too. Harry did this every so often. The reaching out, offerings to drop by with Noah the next time he was in the UK for filming or promo. Zayn always replied with a terse email to Harry’s assistant. As the years passed, the offerings became more and more rare. Zayn and Noah just communicated directly these days.

Zayn was already crafting his customary “Fuck off and burn in hell, Harry Styles” email in his head, but then he thought back to the last time he’d seen Noah. Harry had been shooting at the Tate Modern for a comedy that all of Zayn’s mates loudly insisted was shite. Zayn met up with Noah outside a Chinese restaurant in the West End. Noah was obsessed with musicals at the time, so they saw _Les Mis_. Afterward, a young woman asked a chagrined Noah for his photo.

“Does that happen often?” Zayn had asked. It seemed bizarre to him that anyone would want a fifteen-year-old boy’s photo just because his father was an attention-seeking knob. Noah had nodded, his face the portrait of resignation.

That was more than two years ago.

Zayn placed the gift card on the counter. He resolved to forget about it until he’d had the chance to get some work done.

But no matter how hard he tried, Zayn couldn’t keep Noah and Harry out of his mind.

—

They met during sixth form. Harry was mates with Louis’ girlfriend, Eleanor, and tagged along one night when they all went out for cider and karaoke.

It was lust at first sight. Harry was a dream at seventeen — good looks and charm, quiet intelligence, natural musical ability. They chatted about Pink Floyd and Fleetwood Mac and Usher, and when Harry got behind the microphone to sing along to Stevie Wonder, the world shifted under Zayn’s feet.

They lasted all of two hours before fucking in the dingy single-stall bathroom, Harry rutting against Zayn’s leg and biting a bruise high above his collar. Zayn didn’t even properly remember his name, but Harry looked at Zayn, green eyes blown out with arousal, and Zayn knew that given a little time and effort, this boy might very well break his heart.

Zayn’s family was quick to express their disapproval. Some of Zayn’s friends couldn’t understand the draw, either. Harry was the new kid from Cheshire and that should’ve made him shiny and exciting, but word had already gotten around about the real reason for his family’s move. The baby. And considering how many girls he was seen with around Bradford, rumor had it he’d probably have another one sooner or later.

But Zayn was eighteen and he got off on the drama. He liked that Harry was fit. He liked that they were both bad at texting and that sometimes he had no clue where Harry was — it was a good excuse to yell at him and then have sex in the back of Harry’s Toyota Aygo. And he liked that Harry was constantly writing songs about his baby boy. Those sweet, sung promises showed that Harry had passions and dreams, aspirations of getting out of Bradford and making something of himself. It showed that Harry was going to do something exciting with his life.

And as their relationship morphed from something fleeting and superficial into something almost-adult, Harry started writing songs about Zayn, too.

—

It’d taken a fair amount of cajoling, but that May, Zayn found himself waiting on the Arrivals level at SFO, cautiously optimistic for the five-day holiday ahead of him.

The airport was bright, with white walls and harried employees. Zayn stifled a yawn as he waited and readjusted the hold on his luggage. The flight in was fairly straightforward, but Zayn didn’t get much sleep, too preoccupied with worries of what this trip could entail.

“Baba?”

Zayn ascended from the fog of his thoughts and turned toward the sliding exit doors.

His first thought was that Noah’s graduation photo was slightly misleading. That card depicted a teenager with wild hair and kind brown eyes. With his arms outstretched, he looked like the hero of a coming of age film.

The Noah standing before Zayn now was handsome, staggeringly so, but in a way that summoned memories of Zayn’s brief flirtation with fame and fortune. Zayn would never admit it out loud, but Noah reminded him of the cocaine-fueled models Harry occasionally introduced him to and the hangers-on that supplied their habits.

Noah’s hair was darker than Harry’s ever was, more black than chestnut, but the locks fell around his face in delicate waves and curls, whereas Harry had never quite learned how to style his hair to resemble anything other than a bird’s nest. Noah was more lanky than his father, too, a precarious thinness that made Zayn uneasy. Zayn could probably wrap his hand around Noah’s wrist and have space to spare.

Noah was wearing black skinny jeans and a vintage band T-shirt. That, combined with his sharp features and plump, chapped lips, reminded Zayn of the constant likening to Mick Jagger when Harry’s EP first came out. He could only _imagine_ what people were saying online about the enigmatic, NorCal-raised Noah Styles.

“Noey,” Zayn said, his heart doing something painful and complicated in his chest. “Or — I mean. You’re not too old for nicknames, are you?”

“Definitely not,” Noah said. His voice was deeper, the voice of a man. But then Noah smiled a tenuous, shy thing, and he was no longer the cool seventeen-year-old with rockstar swagger. For a moment, he was little Noey, the boy who couldn’t even pronounce his own name, and Zayn rushed forward to capture him in a hug.

 

Noah left a mud-splattered Dodge Charger idling by the curb. Zayn piled his carryon and duffle bag into the boot and hopped into the passenger seat while Noah tossed on a pair of aviator sunglasses and did a bit of minor primping in the rearview mirror. Noah waited for Zayn to buckle-in before peeling away from the kerb, feverishly switching lanes and blasting the _Jennifer’s Body_ soundtrack.

“How was the flight?”

“Good,” Zayn answered, looking out the window. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in California. Probably when he was playing tour groupie because he was convinced Harry was cheating. “No complaints. How long is the drive to your house?”

“Eh, half an hour if traffic is light.”

“Is your dad in?”

Regardless of how Noah responded, Zayn knew the answer would be unsatisfactory. It hadn’t been enough for Noah that Zayn come to the graduation party. No, Noah was insistent that Zayn occupy the guest room in Harry’s house. “I don’t want to have to drive to a hotel to see you,” Noah had said. “And Dad’s hardly ever over — the show is keeping him busy. It’ll be fine. It’ll be _great_.”

Even now, Noah only shrugged in response. “Haven’t seen him. I’ve been crashing with a friend for the past few weeks. I don’t even think most of my clothes are at the house, at this point. I’ll probably need to drive back to Terry’s to pick stuff up.”

Zayn hummed as non-judgmentally as possible. He knew bits and pieces about Noah’s life, a narrative cobbled from headlines blared across gossip websites and sparse bits of information divulged by Noah himself. He knew that Noah and Harry split time between Palo Alto and London. He also knew that Harry had recently signed onto a highly successful HBO series shot in Los Angeles.

“You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Zayn pressed. “Having me stay over in the house?”

Noah looked sideways at Zayn. “Baba, just trust me. You’re my guest and Dad’s hardly around. It’ll be chill.”

Zayn drummed his fingers on his knee. Noah watched him, the beginnings of a smirk spreading across his face. “You’re sceptical.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s fine if you are,” Noah continued. “I know you and Dad aren’t really on speaking terms.”

Zayn turned his face back toward the window. “We’re on terms.”

Noah snorted at Zayn’s obvious lie, but otherwise kept quiet for the rest of the drive home.

 

It felt like an eternity before Noah exited the freeway, eventually turning into a quiet, residential neighborhood. The house Noah parked in front of was the largest on the block, a sweet colonial revival with blue shutters. Noah’s dirt-speckled car looked scruffy in front of it.

Noah popped the boot and carried Zayn’s luggage into the house. Zayn followed behind, worrying his cuticles between his teeth and feeling like a twat.

The house was neat and clean, but it also smelled stale, like no one had properly lived in it for some time. Noah led Zayn through the front door into a spacious living room with a yellow couch and white coffee table. Harry’s Brit awards and BAFTA sat on the TV stand, which was also yellow. Over the brick fireplace — which Zayn assumed was never used — was an extremely large photo of Harry and a ten-year-old Noah standing next to Stevie Nicks. Harry and Stevie both looked elated. Noah looked like he needed to use the loo.

Noah dropped Zayn’s bags next to the fireplace and immediately began a tour of the house. The living room fed directly into the kitchen, which was equipped with stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and a clock that looked like a banana. There was also a full dining room set, but Noah admitted that no one ever used it. Upstairs was Harry’s bedroom and the master bath, both of which were locked, a mess of black T-shirts and My Chemical Romance posters in Noah’s bedroom (“I wish I grew up in the early 2000s,” Noah said wistfully, as Zayn cringed), and a simply furnished guest bedroom.

“You’ve got your own bathroom,” Noah gestured, “and you can see the patio from here, too. It’s really nice and you won’t ever need to interact with Dad unless you want to.”

Zayn spent the next hour or so unpacking and getting himself sorted and then met Noah back downstairs in the kitchen. For some inexplicable reason, Noah was still wearing his Aviators. He was also filling a glass with Crystal Head vodka.

Zayn blinked. The Noah in his memories was a theatre geek who made faces when Zayn ordered a glass of wine with his dinner. He didn’t know what to make of a Noah who drank spirits in front of him, even though it was certainly no worse behavior than what Zayn was doing at the same age.

“Please don’t tell me you’re the type of person who wears sunglasses indoors. And what in the world are you making?”

“Vodka tonic.”

Zayn peered at Noah’s glass. “You know, I think it needs to have tonic water to make it a vodka tonic.”

“I put some in. But I dunno. Maybe I didn’t put enough? But this is how my mates make it.”

“Your mates?” Zayn said. “Which ones?”

“Terry and Mango,” Noah answered. “I’ve told you about them in my emails.”

Zayn did not think this was true. “You have a friend named Mango?” he asked. Zayn felt like he would remember that sort of detail.

Noah grinned, something sharp and uneven, and barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I have a friend named Mango and Dad’s got that song called ‘Kiwi.’ Everything about my life is a joke.”

Noah took a long gulp from his glass, setting it back on the counter where it rattled for a long, protracted moment.

Zayn stared at his one-time step-son, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

—

The first time Zayn met Noah, he was still staying with his mate Danny in a tiny flat with shitty heating. Harry had come over with McDonald’s, some weed from Louis, and his baby.

Harry texted that he was waiting downstairs, so Zayn buzzed him in and went to stand in the hallway. Harry smiled ruefully up at Zayn as he climbed the stairs, a bag of Big Macs in one hand, and a plump, squirmy baby in the other.

“His mum dropped by unexpectedly,” Harry explained once he was finally on Zayn and Danny’s floor. “I was planning a more structured introduction — ”

“It’s no worries,” Zayn replied and he plucked little Noah out of Harry’s arms.

Noah looked up at Zayn with wide, brown eyes, and grinned a gummy smile. He looked like baby pictures Zayn had seen of Harry on Gemma’s Facebook. He looked like promises and hopes Zayn couldn’t allow himself to indulge in — at least not yet.

Harry and Danny dug into their dinner while Zayn walked with Noah around the flat. Noah babbled at him, all sweet baby talk, and dribbled all over his clothes. Ultimately, Zayn took the baby’s sweater off and held him to his chest, skin to skin. Zayn inhaled the sweet-sour baby scent that clung to his skin and began to hum a nonsense song, relishing in the feel of Noah’s chubby fists against his collarbone.

The resulting surge of affection was the strongest emotion Zayn ever felt.

“I think I love you,” Zayn thought, even though he hadn’t thought those words about Harry yet. “I’m gonna protect you, little guy.”

—

Zayn slept most of the day away, trying to rid himself of a horrendous case of jetlag. The house was quiet every time he stirred. At some point around 3AM, he felt completely wide awake and decided to pace the house. Noah’s Dodge Charger remained the only car parked outside. Zayn wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or not.

The next day passed slowly. Zayn made a fry-up at Noah’s request and they ate together on the patio, the sun’s cheerful rays a welcome addition to the morning.

Zayn still felt half-asleep and was only in his pyjama bottoms, but Noah had always been a morning person, already fully dressed for the day and chattering away. “This summer is going to be epic,” he said, cutting up his sausage. “I can’t remember if I’ve texted you about it, but Mango and I are planning on spending the bulk of it in Los Angeles and Palm Springs. Then, we’ve got a cross-country road trip planned in the Charger. It’s going to be the type of summer Dad would write about in his songs. ‘ _Do you remember Summer ‘09?_ ’”

Zayn recognized the lyrics, although he gave no indication of such to Noah. The first time Harry played the demo for Zayn, his voice ricocheting off the walls of their tiny flat, he’d admitted that it was really about them, that first summer they met. Summer 2010. Summer ‘09 was just catchier.

“You’re going to uni in New York, yeah?” Zayn said, desperately wanting to avoid thinking about anything that reminded him of his marriage and all the ways it failed. “That’s why you’re doing the road trip?”

“Yeah, Columbia,” Noah replied. “Still can’t believe I got into an Ivy. I think it must be because of Dad.”

“Noah, I think they like you for more than your name,” Zayn replied. “Your dad moved all the way out here so you could go to one of the best public schools in the country. And you’ve taken full advantage of your opportunities and done well at school. I remember those screenshots you sent over of your school reports.”

Noah beamed and for a moment all Zayn could see was the five-year-old version of him, running out of his primary school, his little backpack thumping against his back. Noah had wanted his own journal to write songs in, just like his dad. Zayn picked him up a notebook from the pound shop and listened patiently while Noah pointed at scribbles and read out his little stories.

“I’m so happy you always remember the things things I send you,” Noah said, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Why wouldn’t I remember?”

Noah shrugged. “You’re busy with work and stuff in London. I dunno.”

“Noah, I’m never too busy for you,” Zayn said. “Are you still planning on studying English?”

“Yeah,” Noah answered, squinting up at the sun. “I mean, I’ll get the chance to take loads of different classes before I have to declare, but English is still calling to me, I guess.”

“That’s awesome, Noah. I’m sure you’ll be great at it.”

Noah bowed his head and properly dug into his food. They were quiet for the rest of the meal, but Noah didn’t ever stop smiling to himself, quiet and pleased.

 

Zayn retreated into the house and its blessed air conditioning later in the day. He dug a book out of his carry-on — _Station Eleven_ by Emily St. John Mandel, borrowed from a coworker that promised it was a quick read — and curled up on Harry’s marigold couch. Zayn could hear Noah in the kitchen, loading up the dishwasher. The sounds of early morning domesticity — once so familiar and now so distant — must have lulled him to sleep, because the next thing Zayn knew, he was dozing on the couch, the pages of his book folded across his chest.

When Zayn woke, it was because his ex-husband had dropped a guitar case by the front door.

“Oh,” Harry said.

Harry looked the same. His once long, wild curls were shorter these days, and his shoulders seemed broader than what Zayn remembered, but he was still the same tall, handsome man Zayn met and fell in love with. Even his sartorial choice of a gray Nike vest, mint green joggers, and green Gucci sandals felt familiar, albeit stupid.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you in already,” Harry said, picking up his guitar case from where he’d let it thud on the floor. He avoided all eye contact with Zayn. “Noah’s car’s gone.”

Zayn didn’t even hear Noah leave. He wondered whether Noah went to go and grab clothes from his mate’s house.

“Plus the party isn’t until tomorrow,” Harry continued. “I thought you were flying in then?”

“Noah insisted I stay for at least five days,” Zayn answered. “I actually flew in yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh,” Harry said again, this time with a frown. “Well. I wanted to surprise Noah. Come back early from filming for his big day. Everyone on set signed a card.”

Harry could be tremendously thoughtful sometimes. Zayn used to find it endearing, but now he mostly found it annoying. “That’s nice.”

“Do you know if he’s done his maths homework?”

“No.”

Harry expelled a long, deep breath. He was still refusing to meet Zayn’s eyes. “Okay. Well. I take it that Noah already gave you the tour? Made sure you’re comfortable?”

“He has.”

Harry nodded. “Well, in that case, I’m going to excuse myself.” And with that, Harry collected his bags and all but flew up the stairs.

 

The sun was sinking low, spreading pinks and oranges across the horizon. Harry hadn’t come out of his room since ducking into it hours ago, but Zayn was hiding out on the patio anyway, scrolling through work emails on his laptop.

When Harry and Zayn first got together, Zayn held a bunch of odd jobs — bartender, waiter, a cashier at Topman. He’d also done a bit of modeling here and there, but the entertainment industry always felt a bit sleazy. When Harry started making decent money, he insisted that Zayn stop working. Zayn obliged.

Zayn got a nice little settlement out of the divorce, not that he particularly wanted it at the time. Ultimately, he used the money to buy a flat and go to uni. It was the best decision he ever made.

These days, his life was quiet and drama-free. He had his mates and his family were more involved in his life now that Harry wasn’t around to dominate it. And he loved his work as a Programs Manager at a children’s centre.

Zayn was skimming through a foundation proposal when his phone started to vibrate beside him. He picked it up, rolling his eyes fondly at the photo flashing across the screen.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you, old man?” Zayn asked.

“You know sleep is for the weak,” Louis answered. “But I’m waiting up for Freddie to come home from some concert. Thought I might as well annoy you while I’m up.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yeah, lucky you. Have you buried Styles in a ditch yet?”

“Ha,” Zayn said. “Shockingly, no, I haven’t.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Louis said. “He’s always been the biggest knob in the universe.”

“Careful,” Zayn said, looking around. “Noah’s not with me now, but he could come back home any minute.”

“You haven’t got me on speakerphone?”

“No — ”

“Well, then it doesn’t matter,” Louis said. “He won’t be able to hear me slagging off his dad.”

Zayn couldn’t help but smile. So many of his friends were Team Harry after the divorce. Louis loudly insisted he was annoyed with the both of them, but ultimately stayed Zayn’s friend. In a time where it felt like everyone had abandoned him, Louis’ steadfast friendship became the most important thing in Zayn’s life.

“Has he been around, though?”

“Who? Noah?”

“No. Harry.”

“Yeah. Talked to him briefly. He came home a day early.”

Louis scoffed. “Of course he did. Probably couldn’t resist the opportunity to be alone with you again.”

Zayn laughed. “No, Lou. He said he wanted to come back to surprise Noah.”

“He lets that boy run wild across social media and now he suddenly wants to play doting father? Yeah, right. I’ve listened to his most recent album. He hasn’t fucking changed, Zed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pull up Spotify and listen to ‘From the Dining Table.’”

Zayn shook his head, not that Louis could see. “You know I’m not listening to his music. Tell me what you mean.”

“I just think he’s got an ulterior motive, s’all,” Louis said. “He’s landed that huge show. Noah’s going to uni in New York, the land of nepotism modeling. I’m sure he wants to top everything off with a reconciled romance with the one who got away.”

Zayn sighed. “Lou — ”

“Listen to the stupid song and tell me it’s not about you.”

“He’s written loads of songs about me. It doesn’t mean he wants anything.”

“Yeah, he’s written loads of songs, but he hasn’t put out anything like this one before. And then he flies you out to California, all expenses paid, and invites you back for a taste of the happy nuclear family? You can’t tell me you’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”

“It doesn’t matter either way.”

“If you say so.” Louis sounded sceptical. “Just don’t sleep with him.”

“ _Louis_ — ”

“Oh, I think Freddie just got in,” Louis interrupted. “I’ll text later. Make sure you answer.”

Louis hung up. Zayn stared at the phone, his stomach roiling.

 

The next day was Noah’s graduation party. Zayn woke up around ten and got ready. Harry had already left for the restaurant by the time Zayn showered and made his way downstairs. Noah was sat texting, legs splayed across the length of the yellow couch. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark wash jeans, his hair pulled back into a bun.

“Is that what you’re wearing to the party?” Zayn asked.

Noah looked up from Snapchat long enough to glance at his clothes. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Don’t really think it’s nice enough for your graduation party.”

Noah frowned. “But it’s a daytime thing.”

“Sure,” Zayn said. “But don’t you have a button-down or something? And why is your hair in a bun?”

Noah closed his eyes and tilted his chin up. “The bun helps maintain my curl pattern.”

That sounded like bullshit but Zayn figured he would let it slide. “Okay. Go and put on a nicer shirt, please.”

Noah grumbled as he pushed himself off the couch, but when he returned downstairs, he was wearing a very nice plaid shirt.

Noah didn’t feel like battling for parking downtown, so they took an Uber to the restaurant, where they were directed to a room upstairs. Harry and a woman that Noah mumbled was his dad’s newest assistant were already up there, as were a few moderately famous people that Zayn recognized from his pre-divorce life. They must’ve all flown up from Los Angeles just for Noah’s party. Zayn shook hands with some cast members from Harry’s first movie and exchanged air kisses with one of the Jenners. They all remembered Zayn and seemed pleasantly surprised to see him. Zayn didn’t know what to make of it.

“Noah talks about you all the time,” Niall Horan said. He was one of the first friends Zayn and Harry made when they moved to London, back when they were all struggling and broke. Niall’s singing career had taken off around the same time as Harry’s. Zayn and Niall fell out of touch long before the divorce, but Zayn still felt something twist in his chest, knowing that Niall was back in Harry and Noah’s lives. “He’s so chuffed to have you here.”

Liam Payne was at the party, too. Zayn suddenly remembered that there was a picture somewhere in storage of Noah, Liam’s son Bear, and Louis’ son Freddie all playing football outside of Harry and Zayn’s old home. Harry, Zayn, Louis, Liam, and Niall used to be a tight circle, but the days of their friendship felt like a lifetime ago.

Liam greeted Zayn with a long hug. Theirs was another friendship that didn’t live past Zayn’s marriage. “It’s so great to see you,” Liam said. “I’m so glad you came.”

The party milled about the room. Zayn kept close to Noah’s side, chatting with his friends Terry and Mango, and pretended not to notice when they passed a flask around.

When it was time for lunch, they were directed to a table pushed to the back of the room. Zayn’s name tent was to the left of Noah’s seat at the head of the table, right across from Harry.

Zayn and Harry avoided looking at each other directly, but Zayn could feel Harry sneaking glances.

The food was good and the drinks were stiff. Zayn had the opportunity to talk to old friends a little more, but he couldn’t help but think about Louis’ words from the night before. Was Harry trying to make something happen? Is that why everyone seemed so pleased to see Zayn? But wouldn’t Harry need to _look_ at Zayn to rekindle their romance or whatever the fuck it was Louis was alluding to? And why was Zayn even thinking about this when he didn’t _want_ Harry anymore?

It was all a jumbled mess.

 

It was coming on six o’clock by the time the party started to wind down and Zayn was realizing he had probably had one drink too many.

Noah tapped on his arm, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Mango’s inviting me out tonight,” Noah whispered, eyes darting between Zayn and Harry. “Lucas Roberts — he’s our school quarterback — is throwing a rager and somehow Mango scored an invite.”

“A rager at the school quarterback’s house?” Zayn repeated. “And here I was, thinking you were actually punk rock.”

Noah blushed. “I can’t help it that I’m curious. Would you kill me if I go?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking your dad?”

Noah waved his hand dismissively. “He’ll say yes — he doesn’t care so long as I’m not driving. But I want to know whether _you’ll_ mind.”

Of course Noah was going to be distracted at some point during Zayn’s five-day trip. He was seventeen and he should be allowed to hang out with his mates during these last days of blessed adolescence. Zayn was the adult and it was just one night without Noah. As Noah had reminded him on the first night, the house was big enough for him to avoid Harry completely. It would be _fine_.

“Yeah,” Zayn said. “You should go and have fun.”

Noah didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Zayn looked up briefly, his eyes falling across the table. Harry was already watching him, smiling that winsome, Hollywood smile that had always meant absolutely nothing.

“Yeah,” Zayn said, although he felt uncertain. “We’ll be okay.”

Noah nodded, looking equally dubious.

But when their party fell out onto the street outside of the restaurant, Noah still let Mango pull him off into the fading sunshine.

 

Zayn and Harry shared an Uber back home. It was a silent journey, Zayn sitting stiff-backed, conscious of every shift Harry made in his seat.

When they arrived at the house, Harry gestured for Zayn to follow him into the kitchen. Zayn wanted to pretend as though he didn’t see, but Harry’s eyes were wide and beseeching. He’d always had a hard time saying no to Harry.

“Can I make you a nightcap?” Harry said, clearly aiming for flirty and missing it by a mile.

“Sure,” Zayn said, feeling resigned.

Harry pulled down two glasses and a bottle of Cooper & Kings Butchertown brandy. Zayn sat at the dining table and put his head down.

He might’ve dozed, because the next thing he heard was, “Zayn. Hey, Zayn. Are you awake?”

Zayn let his eyes glide up. Harry was standing far closer than he had any right to. His eyes were as green as Zayn remembered. He worried his lips between his teeth the same way. And he smelled the same, too — woodsy and sensual.

Zayn’s mind was a torrent of thoughts. That was probably the only reason he let himself acknowledge something he’d always known about himself, way deep down. He was still helplessly attracted to Harry. Hell, he’d never _stopped_ being attracted to Harry.

Falling into Harry wasn’t gravity, but it did feel somewhat like a foregone conclusion.

It wasn’t sweet. Zayn wasn’t even sure if it was good. But he buried his fingers into Harry’s curls and tugged him in. Harry yielded completely.

The last time Zayn touched Harry, it was after Harry had returned from a day of shooting. Zayn was in the kitchen eating a Chinese takeaway. Their house was ridiculously large then, far more palatial than the sweet Palo Alto colonial they were fooling around in now. It was the gaudy first home of the nouveau riche. The furnishings were too soft, the price tags too large. The kitchen was the only room where Zayn didn’t feel like a total intruder.

Harry still had a dusting of powder on his face when he said, “We need to talk.”

Zayn sat his container of dumplings on the counter and listened without interruption as Harry haltingly admitted to an affair with his coworker, a beautiful model who couldn’t act her way out of a plastic bag. His team successfully quashed a story scheduled to run in  _The Sun_ , but Harry felt racked with guilt. He had to tell Zayn the truth.

Zayn packed up his dumplings and went outside for a smoke.

When they tumbled into bed a few hours later, Zayn could feel wrath pulsating in his fingertips. He pinned Harry to the bed, his hands shaking as he asked, “Is this how you fucked her?” Harry didn’t answer, his breathing leaving a wet patch on their bedspread and pillows. Zayn pulled out, too quick, too rough, and came on Harry’s back. He remembered thinking that he shouldn’t have slept with Harry without a condom.

Harry fell asleep while Zayn showered. When he was done, Zayn grabbed a duffle bag from the closet. He packed up clothes he could recall buying with his own money, dropped his wedding band on the dining table, and left. He booked a hotel across the river and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. The next day, he hired a lawyer and filed for separation.

 _The Sun_ still got their Harry Styles headline.

Zayn was so angry then. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling today, but it was possible he was still angry. Angry at himself for sinking right into bad habits. Angry for falling victim to the very same lust that initially drew him to Harry. Angry for kissing Harry and tasting brandy on his lips, angry for leading him up to the guest bedroom, angry for falling to his knees and opening his mouth.

“Is this what you’ve wanted?” Zayn asked when Harry’s fingers were crooked inside of him. His lips felt raw and his skin was on fire and he was probably too drunk to be doing this. “Is this why you were looking at me all damn day?”

Harry licked his lips and did his best to smile. “Zayn, I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

Zayn tugged again at Harry’s hair. Harry’s mouth fell open, eyes rolling back just as Zayn knew they would. “ _Liar_.”

—

Not long after they moved to London, Zayn and Harry had a small civil service at a registry office. Louis and Eleanor — recently arrived in the capital themselves — were the official witnesses. Noah was there, too, dressed in a suit they’d found secondhand on eBay.

Harry promised they would have a proper reception with family and friends once he made it big. It never happened.

Zayn’s vows were simple: “Harry, I choose you as my husband. I promise to love you and your son. I promise to trust you, respect you, be inspired by you, and forever encourage you in your dreams. I will care for you, build a world with you, and stand beside you, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, as long as we both live.”

Harry sobbed all through his vows, so Zayn couldn’t hear him very well in the moment. Afterward, he took Harry’s moleskin and read them over. The section that always stood out to him read more like a proclamation than a promise: “Zayn, we’re two hearts in one home. Wherever I go — whenever I run out of road — you bring me home.”

Years later, Zayn would hear very similar words played in a song at the end of a movie.

—

Zayn stirred after Harry knocked something onto the floor.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Harry said, scooping his phone into his hand. He was fully dressed and freshly showered, the ends of his hair dripping onto the collar of his T-shirt.

The clock on the wall read a little after nine. Sunlight streamed through the window, unfiltered and unforgiving.

Memories of the previous night crept to the forefront of Zayn’s mind. His fingers in Harry’s hair. The once-familiar pulse of his tongue. Zayn discovered new tattoos, including ink that covered up an affirmation that was once uttered in a shitty flat in Bradford. Harry conducted his own exploration, too. He’d practically clawed at a tattoo Zayn had got of one of his exes.

Zayn was nude underneath the coverlet. A glass of brandy sat half-drunk on his end table and his clothes were tossed haphazardly about the room. He could feel the stretch of having Harry inside him when he shifted. He dug the knuckle of his pointer finger into the corner of his eye and tried to sort through his emotions, wondering if that sinking feeling in his guts was regret.

“I figured I should fix up breakfast before Noah gets back home,” Harry continued. It was painfully clear that he didn’t want Zayn to acknowledge the night before, or how he was going to sneak out of the guest bedroom and leave Zayn to wake up alone. “I was going to try my hand at banana pancakes.”

Zayn wasn’t listening to Harry. Instead, he was thinking about how Harry said he’d never stopped wanting Zayn. For a moment last night, Zayn wanted to believe him.

God, Zayn was a fool. Louis had told him not to do this, and Zayn’d said Louis had nothing to worry about. How could Zayn let his attraction to his ex-husband overrule common sense?

This was why he should never drink.

Zayn grunted and turned over on the mattress. He buried his head into the pillows, squeezing his eyes so tightly he saw a small explosion of firecrackers against the darkness. “Let me know when Noah’s back.”

Thankfully, Harry knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Cheers,” Harry muttered. He closed the door behind him and Zayn drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

—

Harry’s first film came out toward the end of their marriage. The director claimed not to know who Harry was when he cast him. It wasn’t true, but it made for tantalizing headlines during the press blitz.

Zayn and Noah accompanied Harry to the premiere, but they didn’t walk the red carpet. At the time, few people knew that Harry was married, let alone to a man. Zayn didn’t mind. He wasn’t a huge fan of the spotlight and it seemed easier to let fans believe that Harry was available. Perhaps Zayn should’ve cared more.

Those were the days when Zayn couldn’t determine what he and Harry even were anymore. They definitely didn’t feel like partners.

It was a strange thing, sharing your husband with the world. They had a beautiful house and Zayn didn’t have to take the bus or walk Noah to school anymore because they had a nanny and several gorgeous cars. It all felt too good to be true. And it was.

Harry was always off in the studio or taking more acting classes or reading for some part. They hardly saw each other. Zayn only ever knew what Harry was thinking when he heard about it in a song. Zayn stayed up most nights, tossing and turning because it felt like Harry’s love was slipping through his fingers.

That movie premiere was the first time they’d properly spent a night together in almost four months. Zayn felt like a prat, helping Noah dress in a Gucci suit that cost more than his and Harry’s old rent. When the little boy was finally dressed, he looked like a miniature of his father, but without any of the surety. Noah pulled at the collar, his face mutinous when Zayn told him he’d have to wear these clothes all night.

Noah cried during the movie. He was only seven and couldn’t quite separate fact from fiction. He thought his dad was in danger even though he was seated right next to him.

Noah spent the majority of the afterparty hiding between Zayn’s legs, begging to go home.

—

Zayn couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so hungover. His head was a throbbing mess and his body felt like one big ache.

He gingerly made his way to the kitchen. Harry was sitting, eating on the counter. It looked so familiar that for a moment Zayn forgot that he was a thirty-something-year-old divorcee, and instead was transported to those first heady months of marriage to Harry Styles, sitting in their cramped kitchen eating yet another struggle meal of eggs and beans.

Harry jumped down from the counter. It was obvious he was gearing up for something because this time he actually met Zayn’s eyes. “We should probably talk, right?”

Zayn hummed and made his way to the Keurig. He knew that ironing things out with Harry would be the mature thing to do. There were years of miscommunication, distrust, and anger behind each of their interactions, and yet Zayn still let Harry fuck his brains out last night. And if Zayn were being honest with himself, he would probably sleep with Harry again if the opportunity were to present itself.

Zayn distantly wondered whether sex was always to be expected with the two of them. The attraction was always the easy part of their relationship. They knew each other’s bodies before they knew each other’s names. And as the years passed, they always had time to sneak in a quick fuck, stood against the refrigerator while Noah was taking a nap, fumbling in posh club toilets and trailers on a movie set.

Perhaps that was why Zayn was so shocked when Harry admitted to having an affair. Zayn had been stupid enough to think that their track record of fabulous sex was enough to hold up a marriage.

The Keurig started whirring. Zayn made his way to the dining table and pulled out a chair, slumping into it with little fanfare. Zayn let his eyes wander behind Harry to the backyard, where a squirrel scampered across the grass, darting to climb one of the massive trees shading the patio.

“To start off, I just want to thank you again for coming out here,” Harry said. “It was delightful seeing Noah so excited.”

“Of course,” Zayn answered. “Anything for Noah.”

Harry exhaled and the resulting smile managed to feel even more halting. “Okay. So, the next thing I wanted to say is that the invitation wasn’t one hundred percent Noah. I — well. I wanted you here, too. I wanted to have a chance to talk to you about. Erm. About us.”

Zayn only ever took one media training class with Harry. It was toward the end, and at the suggestion of someone on Harry’s team. Zayn still wasn’t sure whether it was because they knew his marriage was rocky or because they already knew about the affair and were preparing Zayn for a tabloid storm that never completely materialized. But he remembered the key advice, how to hide his emotions behind polite smiles. “How do you mean?”

“Well. It’s just that. Erm.” Harry fidgeted, fussing with the handle on his cabinets. “We never quite did have a big blow-up at the end. One day you were my husband and the next you were serving me papers on set.”

“You fucked your coworker.”

“Yes.” Harry’s shoulders were completely rigid.

“Were you expecting a different outcome?” Zayn asked. He was genuinely curious. He always interpreted Harry’s affair as an admission that their relationship was unsalvageable. The marriage had been limping along for almost a year anyway, and it wasn’t like Harry tried to win Zayn back after he’d started the divorce petition. It was essentially radio silence for the next two years as Harry catapulted into A-list superstardom. Most casual moviegoers these days tended to forget Harry ever started off as a musician, let alone that he was once married to a starving artist he met in Bradford.

“Yes, I was,” Harry said. “I was expecting you to fight for me.”

Zayn guffawed. “ _Fight for you?_ After you fucked a bloody Victoria’s Secret model?”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “You vowed to stand beside me, Zayn. ‘I will care for you, build a world with you, and stand beside you.’ That’s what you promised.”

Zayn was gobsmacked. He didn’t know that Harry had memorized his vows.

“You lied to me for almost a year,” Zayn finally said, feeling flat-footed. “I know what I promised, but you made promises, too, and you broke them. And let’s not forget what came after. Because you could’ve reached out if you really felt that way, if you really thought there was something between the two of us that needed fighting for. But instead you took Noah from me.”

Zayn paused, pushing past the rage and ruin and hurt that threatened to seal his throat shut. He’d never vocalized these feelings before.

“I think I could’ve forgiven the rest of it — the betrayal and the affair. But you took _Noah_ from me. I fed that boy in the morning. I tied his shoelaces and held him to my chest when he cried. He called me Baba and I called him son, and you _took_ him from me.”

Harry opened his mouth, tongue poking the pocket of his cheek. He looked young and lost.

The moment stretched, ugly and raw. “I — I didn’t intend to hurt you,” Harry said. “I never meant that.”

“Bullshit.”

Harry bit his lip. “I really didn't. I thought, in some way, that by slowing communication between you and Noah, I was doing you a favour.”

Zayn barely resisted the urge to throw Harry’s banana clock at his head. “A _favour?_ Are you joking?”

“I really did!” Harry insisted. “Look. We were barely in our twenties. Noah wasn’t your kid legally — you never adopted him.”

“Only because his mum never signed on to giving me parental responsibility. You know that.”

“But still. Zayn, we were getting divorced before I even hit twenty-five. You had your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t need to be burdened with babysitting Noah. You could go out and get married again and have your own kids — be a proper dad when you were ready.”

Zayn gaped at the man he left Bradford for. The man he worked graveyard shifts for, the man whose dreams he chased, and whose son he still adored.

It felt like Harry had Zayn’s heart in a vice-grip, just as he had ten years ago when he sat before Zayn and confirmed every single one of his worst suspicions.

“Is that what you thought I was doing with Noah all those years while you were faffing about London, busking and who knows what else to land your big break?” Zayn growled. “That I was just ‘babysitting’?”

Harry grimaced.

“God, Harry. You were always a self-involved prick.”

“I don’t believe that _now_ , Zayn — ”

“But you did then,” Zayn said. “You thought taking Noah for me was doing me a bloody favour because I was just babysitting until you found him a real mum, is that it? Like that model you were cheating on me with?”

“Well, towards the end it felt like you were only with me for Noah’s sake anyway, like you were just playing house to be polite,” Harry hissed. “And then what happened after you left? You completely cut me out of your life.”

Zayn stared at Harry, feeling like he’d lost the thrust of the argument. “You were upset because I was prioritizing Noah?” Zayn asked, just to clarify. “But isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? The kid is always the priority. Always.”

“I mean, yes, Noah was the priority, but you didn’t marry me because of Noah,” Harry countered. “Or at least I didn’t _think_ you did. You got in the relationship to be with me.”

“I did,” Zayn nodded. “I married you because I fucking loved you, Harry. I followed you to London and worked myself to the bloody bone so you could focus on following your dreams. And then the moment you had a taste of success, you cheated on me — ”

Behind them, there was a sudden crash.

Noah was standing in the entryway, eyes wide as saucers. A glass of shattered San Pellegrino was soaking the canvas of his shoes.

Harry surged forward but Noah took a step back, his face contorting with emotions that felt too painful for Zayn to watch. “Dad.” A monstrous pause. “You cheated on Baba?”

“Noah — ”

Noah shook his head and took yet another step away from his father. “No. _Fuck you_ , Dad _._ ”

And then Noah turned and bolted out of the house.

Zayn stared at the pile of shattered glass. It felt fitting that Noah had broke something. Teenagers were always allowed to bring the drama.

Distantly, Zayn heard Noah rev the engine to his car, tires screeching as he peeled away.

 

Zayn fully expected Noah to spend the night with one of his friends. Instead, Noah returned sometime around midnight, a bottle of Grey Goose in his hand.

“I haven’t been drinking and driving,” Noah said, when he saw that Zayn was sitting up in the living room. “Mango gave this to me as a sleeping aid.”

Zayn placed his finger in his book to hold the page and leaned forward. “Noah — ”

“Give me five,” Noah interrupted. “Let me make myself a drink. Then we can talk.”

Zayn nodded and Noah slunk to the kitchen, footsteps loud and plodding.

Twenty minutes later, Noah returned to the living room. Zayn didn’t notice it earlier, but his skin was mottled and pink, just as it always got when he was upset as a baby. Zayn had to fight the urge to pull Noah into his chest.

They sat in silence for several minutes as Noah nursed his drink. When Noah finally spoke, his voice was rough and cracked. “I hate him.”

“Noey, you’re just upset — ”

“It’s true!” Noah cried, petulant. “All this time — all those years he ferried me around, planting me backstage and on movie sets, letting his dumb fuck girlfriends babysit me. Years and years of me feeling _so alone_ , wishing I could be with you or Aunt Gemma, wondering why you two didn’t love me enough to let me stay with you — ”

“You thought I didn’t love you?” That sentence more than anything else that had transpired felt like a knife between Zayn’s ribs.

Noah pulled his knee under his chin. He looked like he was collapsing into himself. “I’ve only seen you in-person a few times over the last few years. Before Dad started making movies and stuff, we were together _all the time_. It was just me and you. And I — one day I got up in the morning and you were gone. Dad said you’d be back soon, that you were just visiting Uncle Louis, but you stayed gone. I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”

Zayn couldn’t breathe. “ _Noah_ — ”

“And then there was always a handler there, after the divorce,” Noah continued, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a wild rush. “It was never the two of us. That’s how it had been with my mother, too, the last few times I saw her. She always had one of her mates along, or a boyfriend, or my Dad’s assistant was there. So with you — I dunno. I thought it was the same thing.”

“There was a handler because the alternative was having your father there,” Zayn responded. “And at the time — for reasons you now understand — I couldn’t bear the sight of him. And you could never live with me — even though God knows I wish you could’ve — because I don’t have any rights. I never had parental responsibility. Your mum would’ve had to agree and she never did like me much.”

Noah blinked, a tear clinging to his top eyelashes. When he exhaled, the breath was wobbly. “ _Oh_.”

Zayn placed a hesitant hand on Noah’s shoulder. “Noey, I am so very sorry. I never knew you felt any of that.”

Noah’s bottom lip trembled dangerously. He turned away, sweeping his knuckle under his eye. “It’s whatever. I don’t think that anymore. Because now I know that Dad cheated on you.”

Zayn sighed. He’d been up all night, rehearsing this conversation in his head. “Yes, he did.”

“He’s a fucking pig.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“I can’t call him what he is?” Noah scoffed. “I don’t know how you can even stand being in the same room as him.” Noah’s eyes went wide, his lips falling open in a perfect circle. “ _Oh God._ I asked you to come stay in a house with a man who’d done that to you — ”

“Listen, Noey, don’t even think about that,” Zayn said, rubbing soothing circles across Noah’s back. “You didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t _want_ you to know. I never wanted you to know.”

“But — ”

“Look, your father and I already had a lot of problems in our marriage before the infidelity started. Plenty of them, actually. The affair was just the final straw for me.”

Noah hiccupped, his eyes darting back and forth across Zayn’s face as he processed his Baba’s statement. “Then why do you still want him?”

“What are you talking about?”

Noah bit the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t head straight to the kitchen when I got in. I could hear you and Dad yelling at each other, but I couldn’t tell what you were actually talking about, so I went upstairs first. I changed and then I walked past your room. The door was open.” Noah shrugged helplessly. “I went inside.”

Zayn knew what Noah saw. The unmade bed with a flannel at the foot of it. The glasses of brandy on each bedside table. Maybe Noah even saw the condom in the wastebasket.

“I’m assuming you didn’t call someone over,” Noah said.

Zayn always tried to be absolutely honest with Noah, even when it was uncomfortable. Even when he wanted nothing more than to hop on the next plane home and never talk about Harry Styles again. “No.”

“So why _him?_ ” Noah pressed. “Why my dad?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn said. “It just happened. That’s what we were talking about when you walked in. Whatever the hell last night was.”

“And you were with him last night? Even after — after everything?”

Zayn shrugged.

Noah looked down at his hands. His smile looked like a sad slash across his face. “I always hoped you two would get back together. I used to ask Santa for it every Christmas. I don’t know what I want for you two now, though. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Noah buried into Zayn’s side. Zayn slung an arm across his shoulder and thought back to that first time he held him. Noah’s sweet smile, his lovely baby scent. Noah was practically a man now. He smelled of Axe deodorant spray and vodka, but he would always be that same little boy that seized hold of Zayn’s heart and never let go.

—

It was easy for Zayn to pretend as though his and Harry’s romantic relationship was only ever angst and lust, but as Zayn made his way up the stairs that night, Noah long passed out on the couch, his mind trudged up reminders of when they were so much more.

The first heady days of young love, sitting, daydreaming in the park. Harry coming over to Zayn and Danny’s flat after a bad row with Noah’s mum, sliding into bed and slotting his legs between Zayn’s. Harry proposing to Zayn the night after he completed sixth form, kneeling out front of the karaoke spot where they met. “There’s nothing holding us back,” Harry had said. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever chosen. Zayn Javaad Malik. Please run away with me.” Zayn still thought that might’ve been the most romantic moment of his life.

Even their married days living in London, Harry busking and Zayn working, those weren’t bad, either. Zayn would come home from the bar, bone tired, and Harry would peel off his shoes and socks and kneed the tension from Zayn’s feet. Harry was so grateful then, earnest, ever eager to show his appreciation for all of Zayn’s sacrifices.

In many ways, the relationship was titled in Zayn’s favour during those early days. Things only started to get complicated when Harry started making real money. Their relationship had never really been tested before they were exposed to glitz and glam and endless temptation.

Zayn headed to Harry’s room. It was locked, but Zayn could hear movement inside.

He knocked. Harry came to the door, eyes red.

“You’re still up.” Zayn wasn’t sure whether he even meant it as a question or a statement.

“You are too.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “Did Noah come home?”

“Yeah. He’s asleep on the couch.”

“Good. I thought I heard the Charger.”

There was a long, awkward pause where Harry seemed to be focused on a spot behind Zayn’s shoulder.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

Harry blinked, long and slow. “You want to come in?”

“ _Jesus_ , Harry — ”

“I just wasn’t sure,” Harry said, opening the door wider and gesturing for Zayn to enter. “I figured you just wanted to tell me Noah’s home.”

“Didn’t you say that I got into a relationship with you for you, not for Noah?” Zayn said. “I’m here to have a conversation with you, about us — not a conversation about Noah.”

Harry’s face was so guarded it felt like Zayn was peering at him through bars. “Is there an us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want there to be?”

Zayn bit his lip and decided to look around Harry’s room rather than answer. It was simply decorated, with a queen size bed, overflowing bookcase, and a single dresser. The only piece of art was a Ziggy Grudzinskas painting Zayn had bought Harry for his birthday what felt like a million years ago.

Zayn closed his eyes and wondered what it meant that the only piece of furniture Harry kept from their life together was this painting.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Zayn said. “Like. I’m not opposed.”

“You’re not opposed,” Harry repeated, voice flat. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Well.” Zayn fell silent, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “It’s complicated, Harry — you know that. The last time we were together, our relationship fell apart.”

“Because I cheated.”

“Yes,” Zayn said. “And because I accepted it without a fight. Because I’d stopped fighting for you long before.”

Harry’s face was absolutely blank.

“I think you were right,” Zayn continued. “Earlier, when we were in the kitchen. Toward the end of our marriage, I was only with you because I didn’t want to give up Noah. Fat lot of good that did me.”

“So you fell out of love with me.”

“No,” Zayn answered slowly, mulling his words over. “I never fell out of love, I don’t think. I just assumed you didn’t care anymore, so I tried not to care, too.”

“I cared,” Harry said. “I just — I didn’t know how to impress you anymore. It was like your love language changed.”

Zayn wanted to scoff at Harry talking about love languages, but maybe he was on to something.

“Everything happened so fast,” Harry continued. “I met Nick and he played the demo on Radio 1 and then it was like an explosion. One day we were barely scraping by, the next I was in a hotel room by myself in Australia, on tour for the fifth month in a row, missing you and Noah like crazy.

“I thought switching to movies might be easier. I would only have to be on location for a month for filming, tops. But by that time, I’d already lost you. We were just going through the motions.”

Zayn remembered. He remembered all of it. Harry’s catapulting stardom, the sheer insanity of it. They went from being in each other's pockets all the time to abbreviated FaceTime conversations and day trips in between tour stops.

Zayn also remembered the hours of media training, the stripping back of Harry’s charm and wit and personality. He remembered the careful rewriting of Harry’s history, the glossing over of Noah’s conception, the complete omission of Zayn and Harry’s marriage. And voila! Harry was suddenly a marketable human being.

But Zayn also knew that they were both older now. Zayn had his own money, his own career. He had been an individual separate from Harry for more years than they had been together. He didn’t feel insecure stood next to Harry anymore.

“I could be better for you now,” Harry continued. “I would give to you, instead of taking away. That’s where I went wrong before, I think. I took you for granted. I forgot that we were supposed to be partners. I forgot my promise to you.”

“Do you really mean that?” Zayn asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“And this isn’t just for show?” Zayn said. “You’re not interested in me again for like — I dunno. For PR or something?”

“Have you been talking to Louis?” Harry frowned. “Whatever. This isn’t — I don’t give a fuck about PR. I’ve just signed a huge contract with HBO where I’m playing a divorced dickhead. I can’t talk about major plot points because of the fucking contract, but just believe me when I say it’s too close to my life, and I’ve been missing you like crazy. I realized that I can’t keep living a life without you in it.”

Zayn couldn’t remember the last time he heard so much passion in Harry’s voice. That determination was what drew Zayn to Harry in the first place. And it was what made Zayn realize he wanted to try again. He wanted to be Harry’s again, wanted to love him without the delusions of wealth. He wanted Harry in spite of the betrayal, in spite of the festering wounds of a ten-year-old heartache, and the cruelty of their once shared indifference.

He wanted to relearn how to love Harry, without pretense or illusion, fully aware of how difficult it would be.

“Harry, I’ve loved you for almost seventeen years,” Zayn said. “I never stopped, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t think I would’ve come here and stayed with you this weekend if I didn’t.”

Harry exhaled. When he smiled, it was the huge, bashful thing of Zayn’s memories.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Let’s try this.”

—

On the last day of the trip, Noah and Harry drove Zayn to the airport. Noah still wasn’t properly speaking to Harry, but Zayn had faith that they would eventually work everything out.

Harry gave Zayn a package in blue wrapping paper while they were standing on the Departures level at SFO. “You can’t open it until you get back home,” Harry said. And then he’d kissed Zayn, full on the mouth, for everyone in the airport to see. Zayn smiled, tongue pushing at his teeth, and put the package in his carry-on.

Zayn forgot all about it until he was back in his flat, opening windows to let some air in. He had a missed Facetime call from Noah, seventeen increasingly unintelligible messages from Louis, and one Whatsapp message from Harry, a simple “Have you opened it yet?”

Zayn sat at his table and pulled the gift from his bag. He was careful as he peeled through the tape and wrapping. And his heart stopped when he saw what Harry gave him.

A framed copy of a paper torn from his moleskin. Harry’s wedding vows from all those years ago.

_Zayn, I’ve written a dozen versions of these vows, but nothing I write seems good enough to describe all of the ways I cherish you._

_I knew from the first time I laid eyes on you that you could break my heart, but I trusted you’d know how to keep my fragile core safe. I adore you beyond words._

_You’re lover and friend and guardian. You’re space and air and hearth._

_Zayn, we’re two hearts in one home. Wherever I go — whenever I run out of road — you bring me home._

_When nothing in this world makes sense, I know that I love you. And that’s my vow to you — that I will always love you._

And then, scribbled in blue ink, a recent addition —

_I vow to keep my vows._

_Forever your love,_

_H._

**Author's Note:**

> "In this prompt I would like to see a Divorce AU. Harry and Zayn marry young and things don't work out maybe. Years after their divorce they reunite. They could be married to other people. Infidelity could be included. They can have kids. . . Basically a heavy angsty about Zarry divorcing and reuniting after years. Bottled up emotions."
> 
> —
> 
> Thank you to my tremendous beta readers and Britpicker. 
> 
> And thank you, patient reader, for making it to the end. I appreciate you beyond words.


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